


Lady English's Soliloquy

by SkaianetSystems



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Angst, Crockertier, Happy Ending, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Kinda?, M/M, Possession, Sadstuck, but mind the tags, i guess, not as bad as it sounds, ooc because dirk and jake would never talk about their feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-23
Updated: 2020-01-23
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:40:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22368067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkaianetSystems/pseuds/SkaianetSystems
Summary: There comes a time in every couple's life where you have to talk about your deepest traumas. Or just talk in general.
Relationships: Jake English/Dirk Strider
Comments: 4
Kudos: 27





	Lady English's Soliloquy

**Author's Note:**

> In 2020, we are HEALING from our SEXUAL TRAUMA. This is not an option.

You’d anticipated this for years, dreamt about it, although it was a bit embarrassing to admit. Of course, it was the natural course the relationship would turn! It is not as if you’re sex repulsed, quite the opposite really, you have plenty of desires of your own.

So why did it feel so bad? Why’d you feel sick to your stomach? Why did you start sobbing? It was all consensual, you’d even discussed it beforehand! It’s not that you don’t find Dirk attractive, he’s a handsome fellow and you love him dearly. So-

  
“What’s wrong?” he asks after you are both fully clothed once again, mood thoroughly ruined. He’d frantically pulled the breaks once he saw the way your eyes glazed over.

  
What IS wrong? Quite a loaded question really! Who knew something that happened so long ago could still affect you years later, no matter how far you pushed it into the crevices of your consciousness. You stare vacantly at the carpeted floor of your bedroom, grasping at your own skin for some sort of anchor to reality. All the atoms in your body feel as if they are vibrating at an impossible speed.

  
You can almost feel the cold, hard prison floor.

  
“Jake?”

  
His concerned voice snaps you out of your dissociative haze. The memories of your misstep in the horizontal tango causes your face to burn in embarrassment.

  
“Ah, nothing to worry about! Just some poorly timed nerves!” you assure him as you muster up your most convincing face with a winning grin.

  
You look straight through him.

  
He looks at you though, oh you know that for certain. His gaze feels like swarms of ants burrowing under your skin, each driving you progressively more mad until you can feel your eyes heat up with tears. Your lip wobbles pathetically. A shaky intake of breath is all that warns him before hot tears and snot flood your face as your body is wracked with sobs. He makes a noise of surprise as you shove yourself into his chest but soon cautiously pets your hair.

  
You remember the bright red robes she wore. The lines of circuitry that was etched into her skin. The slamming of the prison door. Her stoic yet stern voice. Her face scrunched up in disgust. Hate. Loathing. The way the words she said makes you feel filthy; the kind of filth no shower can scrub away no matter how much dirt and sin flows down the drain. How the cold wind caressed your exposed thighs and made the tears flowing steadily from your eyes bite. How you can see your body more as a hunk of meat to be used as one may desire than a piece of you. The tabloids have made that even more apparent as soon as you’d turned 18, and even a little bit before then. You feel pure nausea when looking at the parts of yourself you’re complimented for the most. Of course, it’s never anyone’s fault but yours. How dare people control themselves for a single moment! It’s YOUR fault for inhabiting a body that is so sinfully lecherous.

  
You pry your face off his bosom with a wet sniff to finally look up at him. Though it’s always difficult to get a good read on his face, his stiff posture betrays him per usual. You hope that whatever mental dalliance is occurring in his mind doesn’t involve him guilting himself.

  
“You know we don’t have to do this if you’re not comfortable.” he whispers quietly. So much for not blaming himself.

  
You’re quick to butt in. “Dirk, it’s not if I don’t want to engage in the Devil’s dance with you! I’m delighted to, in fact! It’s just,” you pause wondering how in the dickens you’re gonna phrase this, “complicated?”

  
He raises an eyebrow. “Care to explain?”

  
You break out into a cold sweat. “Ah- umm, only if you promise not to be mad?” you stammer out, lips suddenly dry.

  
Dirk ponders for a moment before looking at you. “Only if it isn’t something that’s worth being mad about.”

  
Oh boy. You rub at your arm as you explain. You tell him about possessed Jane and the Derse prison. The cold floors, the stone walls, the outfit of which you were scantily clad in. Her robotic voice laced with hate and disgust, the shame, the humiliation, the guilt, all of it. You watch as Dirk’s face slowly gets stonier and stonier as you continue on with your retelling. The more impassive he gets, the more the spurs of humiliation sink in. God, he probably thinks you’re overreacting, it’s not like you were even assaulted. You feel sick to your stomach waiting for a response, a hint of emotion, anything.

  
“Haha, um,” you choke out, “yeah it’s probably stupid I shouldn’t’ve brought it up.” You feel like you’re gonna cry again.

  
“What? Wait, no, hold on.” he says as he scoots closer to you. “What happened to you is fucking irreprehensible, dude, I just-” he makes complicated motions with his hands, “ don’t know how I should comfort you? Like, wow, Dirk Strider, excellent boyfriend number one, right?” he pauses for a moment. “Shit, sorry, this is about you, right.”

  
You give a little snort at his ramble. “I’m just...glad to get it off my chest? I mean, I don’t feel any better about it, but, you know what they say! Admitting your horrifying sexual trauma is the first step to recovery!”

  
“I think you mixed up your phrases.”

  
“Oh hush up, you.”


End file.
